In The Library
by Omi-Omi
Summary: There's no talking in the library at Hogwarts, not under Madam Pince's watch. Unfortunately, there's only one copy of the book Harry and Draco both need for the Potions essay that is due the next morning, so they will have to find some way to share. Quietly.


**A/n:** Written for hp_silencio 2013 on LJ, for a prompt left by ICMezzo. To qualify for the fest, the fic had to contain no dialogue - it was a fun challenge! Thank you to my wonderful betas, birdsofshore and evilgiraffe82.

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intend**ed.**

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**In the Library**

Madam Pince sits at her desk, along with a neat stack of books. She is not reading – she never does while working. Instead, she is observing the denizens of Hogwarts Library. She watches, taking note of every movement and interaction taking place around her. It is with interest that she sees Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy making their way to the same shelf in the Restricted Section.

ooo

_Potions Most Foule_; soft light glints from the curving golden letters of the title. Harry stands in front of a row of well-worn Potions books, the spines cracked and leather soft from the hands of hundreds of students before him. He loves this feeling, of being dwarfed by the towering stacks of books and the long history of Hogwarts.

Harry reaches up, but instead of flaking leather, he touches warm skin. Harry looks up into the startled eyes of Draco Malfoy. His hand still rests on Malfoy's, the heat beneath his fingers a shock after so many months without more than the accidental touch of another. Malfoy's eyes narrow, but before he can say a word a rather pointed cough comes from Madam Pince's direction. Instead of speaking, Malfoy pulls his hand back with enough force to make Harry drop his hand to his side and feel guilty.

They both fall back, but Harry won't be so easily deterred. Hot skin or no, he needs that book. He spreads his fingers and reaches once more to grasp the book, but Malfoy's are there first again. Somehow, even without opening his mouth to speak, Malfoy manages to be irritating. Harry had forgotten quite what this is like, the curl of anger that tightens his shoulders. Malfoy has always provoked a strong reaction. Around them quills scratch across parchment, and someone sniffs; no one is aware of the silent struggle for the last copy available of the one book needed for the NEWT potion class.

Harry is not worried, because he knows that Malfoy will have to give him the book, regardless of who picked it off the shelf first. With a mental finger up, Harry holds the parchment with Slughorn's signature scrawled across the bottom before Malfoy's eyes. His smile fades though as Malfoy doesn't frown but instead smirks – fucking smirks! – then holds up his own parchment, complete with the same purple flourish of ink as Harry's. Suddenly Slughorn's willingness to write Harry a note seems less a special favour, and more a ploy to get Harry to leave him alone.

The moment's hesitation this brings is enough for Malfoy to push his shoulder in front of Harry, and with a glare he tugs the book from the shelf and goes to sit at a nearby table. Harry stares after him. The sound of a someone clearing their throat fills the library; then it returns to the hush of pages turning, the scrape of chairs being pulled back and pushed in, and the tapping of feet. Harry doesn't know what to do, as he is not meant to go anywhere near Malfoy. Every encounter since their return to Hogwarts has ended in a fight: there is something about Malfoy that riles Harry like no other, and the feeling appears to be mutual. After the last occasion, McGonagall made it clear that Malfoy and Harry could not be trusted to keep things civil between themselves, so they have avoided each other ever since.

Malfoy opens the book, cushioning the old volume with a charm so it rests, not fully flat, on the table. It forms a wide V of yellowed pages, and Malfoy bends his head as he leafs through it, searching. He is definitely not staring at Harry in the way that Harry is staring at him. Harry shuffles from one foot to the other, his eyes moving to the book.

He needs to write this essay tonight, and he cannot write it without the book. There is only one thing to do.

Harry takes a deep breath, and walks over to the desk. Malfoy refuses to look up. He turns each page of the book with a quick _fwap-fwap-fwap_ that suggests he isn't really reading at all. Harry watches, as diagrams and thick spidery print flash past. It is unclear whether Malfoy knows where to look in the book or not. Or perhaps he is just waiting until Harry leaves. But Harry needs to see the diagrams for himself. He needs to know which part of the knotgrass plant is used in the Polyjuice potion. He needs to know when it is harvested and how.

The flicking of the pages stops when Harry pulls out the chair beside Malfoy. And then, slowly, Malfoy does look up. His face looks pained, at war with itself. Harry just stands there, waiting. He knows that Malfoy can't afford to make a scene in such a public place. Malfoy's arm is cradled around the book now, his lips pressed tight together. His nostrils flare, but then he nods his head, unwraps his arm, and shoves the book into the centre of the desk.

A high-pitched creak issues from the chair as Harry sits down. Madam Pince's disapproval seems to ooze in cold waves towards them, so Harry hastens to get into place. He pulls the chair in, the legs dragging along the floor as he manoeuvres until he is as close to Malfoy as possible.

He is close enough, now, that he can make out some of the words on the page between them. It is a list, but for not for Polyjuice. Harry can also feel, pressed up against him, the heat of Malfoy's body. The tremor of tension running through it. He ignores the corresponding urge within his own body, the urge to push Malfoy away and escape. Somewhere in his bag is the scroll with his notes for this essay, and Harry rummages around until he finds it. Beside him, Malfoy's face is pulled up into a disgusted sneer, and Harry flushes as he looks down and sees the disarray of half-chewed quills and biscuit crumbs that he has just spilled across the desk. He crams the quills back into his bag and brushes the crumbs onto the floor; the last action drawing a small, shocked, inhalation. If she were here, Hermione would fill his ears with admonishments, regardless of the steely glare of Madam Pince. For once, Harry is glad for the oppressive quiet of the library.

Malfoy focuses on ignoring him. Harry can tell, because Malfoy's head turns at an angle away from him, and he returns to turning the pages. If he continues to ignore Harry quite so vigorously, he may well end up tearing the mildewed paper. Harry watches the heavy, crooked print slide by, but then he sees it: knotgrass. And yet the pages keep moving. Harry glances over at Malfoy, and the corner of his mouth is twisted as he bites down on it. _Fwap-fwap_. Harry shoots his hand out, and stills Malfoy's.

Stiff fingers pull away, as if burnt. Harry turns the book back a few pages, until he finds knotgrass. He taps the page, then lays his hand on Malfoy's arm. Malfoy glances down at the page then looks up at him, and Harry notices the pink indentations where he has been biting his lips. With a curt nod, Malfoy sits, passive and silent, waiting to see what Harry does next. Hoping that he is indeed right, that this is the key to unravelling this essay, Harry unrolls his scroll, and shows Malfoy his notes.

Once Malfoy has scanned Harry's scribbles, he pulls out his own scroll, unrolling it to reveal neat lines of charcoal ink. Whether it is scrawled or written in elegant loops, Harry can see that they have come to similar conclusions. They both turn back toward the book.

The trembling at his side has stilled a little now, but Harry can still feel Malfoy's heat. In fact, he is also now aware of how their legs are also pressed up against each other. He is pressed up against half of Malfoy's body. The thought is disturbing. Electrifying. Harry is aware of his own body, of each tremor of his own muscles. In his daily life, he is never this close to anyone. He never _touches_ anyone. Harry can remember though, what it is to stand with fingers entwined and lips just touching; the soft warmth of skin as his hand slid up under a jumper.

His fingers move slightly, as they remember— Harry almost stops breathing. Not Ginny. They remember Malfoy's hot skin beneath his when they both reached for the book, the hard ridges of fingers. The way his body was firm beneath Harry when they had last fought, in a tumble of limbs and punches between the tables in the Great Hall. In the strangled silence that follows, in the quiet of the library, Harry can hear Malfoy breathing. It sounds measured, as if Malfoy is calm. Or trying to stay calm.

The desire to run away is even stronger in Harry now, because what he really longs to do is not pull back but push closer. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. This proves to be a mistake, as Harry becomes aware of the hint of fresh citrus in the air, and realises that he is busy inhaling Malfoy's _scent_. He takes another, even deeper breath before he comes to this conclusion though, because even if it is Malfoy, it smells wonderful. Embarrassed, Harry opens his eyes, but no one seems to have noticed. Someone behind a shelf somewhere is still sniffing, students are still busy writing, and there are probably a pair of sixth- or seventh-years quietly groping each other somewhere in the stacks.

At the thought of groping, Harry begins to feel a little peculiar. The strange proximity of Draco bloody Malfoy is getting to him, and Harry doesn't know what to do. He certainly doesn't want to bury his face in Malfoy's hair and neck and robes, and just smell him, or run his hand across his hot skin.

_Fwap_.

Harry looks up. Malfoy has turned to the next page, as if there has been no breathing in of scents or urges to touch. The words on the page aren't making sense though: they seem to Harry to be a jumble of letters. He blinks, and tries to refocus his eyes, but before he can find any meaning in the words, Malfoy has turned a page again. Malfoy is reading too fast, and the panic about the essay returns. Harry needs this mark; he has to pass Potions.

With his mind firmly locked on the thought of handing in three feet of essay tomorrow, Harry locks his hand onto Malfoy's, and then pushes it aside so that he can turn back two pages. He makes a point then of picking up his quill and making a note. Malfoy seems to understand, because he too picks up his quill, and writes on his own scroll. Malfoy holds his body tight, but their elbows jostle slightly as they write. Neither says anything. Harry has to bite back a smile at Malfoy's competitive streak. Just to see what will happen, he draws out his note-taking. Malfoy begins to tap his quill against the parchment. Harry feels his leg jig as Malfoy taps his foot, too.

Finally, Harry reaches over and turns the next page. With an exaggerated sigh, Malfoy begins to write again. The temptation is too strong, and Harry repeats the entire performance. This time it is Malfoy who flicks the page, and Harry relents a little. He does actually want to get the notes, because he still has the essay to write too.

When they get to the diagram of the knotgrass plant, the writing is small and the letters squashed up so close to one another that Harry has to squint to read them. Malfoy is obviously having the same problem, as they both put their quills down. They bend their heads closer, until fine hair and the scent of citrus are brushing up against Harry's face. Neither help his ability to read the tiny words on the page. When Malfoy's hand touches Harry's, it is all Harry can do not to leap up and yelp. Malfoy's hand is still against his, like a breath held. They are just sitting close: brushing hands is to be expected with a left-hander sitting beside a right-hander. Harry should have sat on the other side of Malfoy, but it is too late to move now.

Their little fingers are still touching. Malfoy's hair has fallen down in a pale curtain and even though he is so near, Harry cannot see his face. He can feel though, the soft huff of Malfoy's breath on his cheek. It is warm and clean and smells sweet, mingling with the citrus scent of his hair. Harry forces himself to exhale, trying to keep it normal, trying to keep it controlled.

The contact ends when Malfoy moves his hand away to pick up his quill. A sinking, quivering feeling settles in Harry's gut. He picks up his own quill, and tries to replicate the diagram as best he can. He would ask Malfoy what he makes of the tiny writing, but Harry doesn't quite trust himself to talk. And besides, by not talking they are managing to share this book. If he opens his mouth, they might end up in another argument, and Harry knows that they are both trying to avoid that.

And wrong as it may be, Harry is enjoying the feeling of sharing space with another person. It is everything that lonely nights and solitary walks are not.

When Harry finishes his drawing, he rests his hand beside Malfoy's so that their little fingers touch again. Malfoy stiffens beside him. Harry dares not move: not to breathe, not to glance over at Malfoy. Instead, he stares at the book, black lines swimming before his eyes.

After three long breaths in and out, Malfoy reaches over and turns the page. With his right hand. His left hand remains where it is, nestled up against Harry's. A fire is growing in Harry's chest now. It is fuelled by the scent of lemons and a light touch to his hand, and by the body pressed against his, the leg that has begun to tremble beside his own. Although Harry can't see Malfoy's face, he _can_ see it: he sees it in memories of glimpses of Malfoy, across the Hall, through windows, in conversation with his friends. He knows every detail of it, from the way the light catches the brightness of his hair, to the clouded grey of the eyes and the haunted expression Malfoy mostly wears now. But he also knows how Malfoy looks on a broom, in search of the Snitch: free and wild and scared of nothing on Earth.

Malfoy's right hand rests lightly on the book. His leg is still shaking. Harry's is probably shaking too, because the heat is tearing through his veins, and he can no longer think clearly. When he can bear it no more, Harry very gently moves his little finger so that it strokes along the side of Malfoy's. It is as if a spark passes between them, and the curtain of hair moves as Malfoy turns his head toward Harry. His skin is pink, and his eyes are wide, his lips just barely parted. His finger moves against Harry's in an answering soft stroke.

Harry cannot stop the smile that breaks across his face, simultaneously shy and joyous. Malfoy's answering smile is immediate, and their little fingers link and squeeze. Harry's gaze returns to Malfoy's lips, pink and shiny and revealing white teeth beyond. His face is so very close, and all Harry has to do is lean in a little more, press into the hot and trembling body beside him, let the sweet-soft breath touch his skin, and he feels the warmth of Malfoy's skin as their noses and, for the briefest of moments, their lips touch.

A book slamming shut on the other side of the library reminds them of where they are, and they pull back. But beneath the table, their legs are still touching, and their feet hook together. As they continue reading, they pause between pages and let their hands tangle, their fingers exploring the rise of knuckles and soft pad of palms.

When their notes are complete, Harry and Malfoy rise together. The book reshelved, they walk out, bodies pressed close, and hands entwined.

ooo

Madam Pince watches Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy leave, hand in hand, and smiles. The most extraordinary things happen in the library, and she sees them all.


End file.
